Baseball great Tony Gwynn brought his San Diego State team for games against Santa Clara University on February 27, 2013 at Stephen Schott Stadium. Here he watches his team take batting practice.

Baseball great Tony Gwynn brought his San Diego State team for games against Santa Clara University on February 27, 2013 at Stephen Schott Stadium. Here he watches his team take batting practice.

Photo: The Chronicle

Image 2 of 7

Tony Gwynn walks around the dugout before the game against Santa Clara University.

Tony Gwynn walks around the dugout before the game against Santa Clara University.

Photo: The Chronicle

Image 3 of 7

Ken Griffey Jr., left, talks with Tony Gwynn of the San Diego Padres at prior to the 1992 All-Star Game on July 14, l992 in San Diego, California.

Ken Griffey Jr., left, talks with Tony Gwynn of the San Diego Padres at prior to the 1992 All-Star Game on July 14, l992 in San Diego, California.

Photo: Getty Images

Image 4 of 7

Circa 1979-81: Outfielder Tony Gwynn of San Diego State University readies for the pitch.

Circa 1979-81: Outfielder Tony Gwynn of San Diego State University readies for the pitch.

Photo: Collegiate Images/Getty Images

Image 5 of 7

Image 6 of 7

Circa 1979-81: Outfielder Tony Gwynn of San Diego State University makes contact with a pitch.

Circa 1979-81: Outfielder Tony Gwynn of San Diego State University makes contact with a pitch.

Photo: Collegiate Images/Getty Images

Image 7 of 7

Remembering Tony Gwynn

1 / 7

Back to Gallery

I crossed the line of objectivity with Tony Gwynn, and my peers chided me for it, usually playfully because they understood he was far more than the best in history at what he did.

He also was an all-kindness first-teamer — fan-friendly, kid-friendly, media-friendly, teammate-friendly and opponent-friendly.

I’ve always said Gwynn, who died today at 54, was the best guy I ever covered in sports. On the field, nobody hit like him. Nobody perfected his game like him. Off the field, nobody was warmer. Nobody was more accommodating.

The last time I saw him, last year when he visited the Bay Area with his San Diego State baseball team, I hugged him. He was recovering from a second cancer surgery to remove a malignant tumor from the inside of his right cheek, and he didn’t need to be hanging out with college kids away from home

But that was Gwynn. Dedicated to his alma mater. Dedicated to his craft. Dedicated to the game.

Like always.

I was a college mate of Gwynn and followed him on the basketball court, not just the baseball field. He was a dynamic hoopster, an extremely quick point guard who still owns school assists records. He always was the quickest on the court free-throw line to free-throw line and had a soft push shot, money from 15 to 18 feet.

Gwynn actually had a basketball scholarship and didn’t play baseball as a freshman. So when shortstop Bobby Meacham (a future Yankee) made a recruiting visit and spotted Gwynn on campus, he helped persuade the baseball coach, Jim Dietz, to take on the young man Meacham called the best high school player he’d seen.

Gwynn agreed to play baseball but only after basketball season ended. A classic story: He collects 16 points and 16 assists in a season finale. Two days later, having exchanged high tops for spikes, he collects five RBIs in a double-header, driving in the winning run each game.

He was all-conference in both sports and drafted on the same day by the Padres and NBA’s San Diego Clippers. Gwynn knew his road to the big time was in baseball, and he quickly rose through the minors and, in his first full season, helped the 1984 Padres reach the World Series.

Side note: Three outfielders on Gwynn’s college team made the majors. Gwynn. Steve Sayles, a trainer. And Kerwin Danley, an umpire.

Gwynn was the ultimate stand-up guy, always available for an interview, win or lose, and often was seen at his locker, before games or after, spreading his wisdom to a flood of reporters – when he wasn’t mentoring young teammates or studying video, a practice for which he set a trend.

Even in college, he was incredibly thoughtful, colorful and delightful in interviews, and he made it easy for me to choose my profession. I knew he was heading for stardom and figured if all athletes were this cooperative in pro sports, this sports writing profession would be a breeze.

Well, it didn’t turn out that way, but Gwynn never changed. He was as charming and obliging as a Hall of Famer as he was a kid in college. Other than Ryne Sandberg, Gwynn was the only Hall of Famer who put on a uniform and worked a full-time job, preferring the grind and gratitude of college baseball 101.

When his team visited the Bay Area last year, he told me, “I love it, especially getting back from cancer. I’ll do what doctors tell me, but I want to coach. I want to be here. I’m hoping to get through the year, but with cancer you just never know.”

Gwynn got through last year but not this one. He said he thought the cancer developed because he chewed tobacco. He’ll be missed, as any ambassador would. He was Mr. Aztec. Mr. Padre. Mr. San Diego. Mr. Cooperstown. Nobody was more faithful, playing his entire career in one town and later broadcasting and coaching in the same town.

A nice thing about covering the Giants is swapping stories with Bruce Bochy and Tim Flannery about their ‘80s Padres teams that included Steve Garvey and Goose Gossage but really featured Gwynn, who always proved people wrong on his way to eight batting titles, including in 1989 when he surpassed Will Clark on the final day.

They said he couldn’t steal bases, so he learned the art of basestealing. They said he couldn’t power up, so he learned to power up. They said he couldn’t defend, so he won five Gold Gloves. He’d welcome today’s 100-mph pitchers with a single through third and short. He’d chuckle at all the defensive shifts. And he’d still hit .338, his lifetime average.

He was the epitome of a complete player but always said he was “scuffling.” He was a perfectionist, probably thinking he should hit 1.000. Even some of his hits weren’t good enough. He always thought he could do better. So he kept pushing.

His son, Tony Gwynn Jr., a Phillies outfielder, called his dad his best friend and mentor on Twitter and wrote, “I’m gonna do everything in my power to continue to… Make u proud!” At San Diego State, Tony Gwynn Sr. coached Tony Gwynn Jr. at Tony Gwynn Stadium.

Now that was perfection.

It didn’t take long to develop a friendship with Gwynn, meeting up with him at off-field events, including a pick-up hoops game or three that he probably shouldn’t have played. He loved talking baseball — including the hitting tendencies of Clark, Barry Bonds and others who I covered– and basketball.

He also was outspoken against performance-enhancing drugs in baseball and said in 2003 that half of position players used amphetamines, which ultimately got banned. He’d address any subject to anyone interested because he was accountable, and no one who ever played the game was more respected and honorable.